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DKOP’S DOG; 

AND OTHER STORIES. 



MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON, E. S. THAYER 
AND ELizABETH KEES, ‘ 



BOSTON : 

D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY, 

FRANKLIN ST., CORNER OF HAWLEY. 

^ISlf 





COPYRIGHT 

D. LOTHROP 
1878 . 



BY 

& CO. 


» 






DROP’S DOG, 



AY, mother,” spoke up Barney Drop, with his 


mouth full of delicious cream toast, as the 
family and their guest. Miss Topliff, who had arrived 
on the early express that morning, were sitting around 
the bountifully spread breakfast table, “ I Ve just been 
down to the brook to see if there was a muskrat in 
my box-trap, and I saw more’n a hundred striped 
snakes sunning themselves on the green grass of the 
side-hill back of the barn.” 

“ Is it possible that your beautiful farm is infested 
with those disgusting reptiles ? ” exclaimed Miss Top- 
liff. “ I shall not dare step outside the door while I 
am here, and I have counted on such delightful ram- 
bles over, your green fields ! ” 

“O, they won’t hurt you,” explained Barney, pat- 
ronizingly. “ They’re not there now ; the old cow 
came along and ate them all up.” 


Drop's Dog. 


“ Dear me ! ” cried the astonished lady, with a 
little shiver, “ I never heard of such a thing as a cow 
devouring snakes.” 

“ Didn’t you ? ” asked Barney, in a tone of pitying 
surprise. “ That is queer. Why, it is only the last of 
April now, and our old cow has eaten more’n a million 
already this spring, since the snow went off. It makes 
her give lots of milk, I can tell you ; ” and the small 
boy passed his plate for more toast. 

As his father handed back the replenished plate, he 
nodded his head suggestively toward the corner of 
the room, where stood a stout whip. Mrs. Drop also, 
with her face as red as the Bohemian glass pickle 
tray that she was just then handing to Miss Topliff, 
gave her ten years old son a sharp look, while she 
went on making some inquiries of her guest concern- 
ing her journey. 

That lady evidently made a great effort to appear 
interested in the conversation, but it was noticeable 
that she ate no more of the toast, forgot to taste of 
her amber coffee, rich with golden cream, and, after 
inquiring whether Mrs. Drop wet up her bread with 
milk, and being answered in the affirmative, she fin- 
ished her breakfast with a dry cracker without butter. 

For a day or two poor Miss Topliff felt uncomfort- 
able enough. She did not dare to step out of doors 


Drop's Dog, 


for fear of encountering a snake, and did not taste of 
anything into the composition of which butter or milk 
had entered. 

Finally Mrs. Drop’s love of hospitality overcame 
her motherly pride, and, with a doleful face, many 
sighs, and some tears, she told her guest that ever 
since Barney had begun to talk he had told the most 
absurd wrong stories. 

“In fact,” said the mortified mother, “the child 
cannot speak the truth. It is impossible to put the 
least dependence upon a word he says. Punishment 
doesn’t have any effect in the premises, and I am 
afraid he will grow up to be that most obnoxious of 
all human creatures, a liar.” 

Miss Topliff was duly surprised and grieved to hear 
that any boy, most of all a deacon’s son, should de- 
velop such an evil propensity. But presently, as she 
was refreshing herself upon a bountiful lunch of 
bread and milk she said : 

“ I have a plan that will, I think, result in Barney’s 
complete cure. You must send him to my brother’s 
family school for boys at D . His number is lim- 

ited to eight, but Adam Hall, the colonel’s son, you 
know, is to leave the first of May, and if you would 
like to have me, I can secure the vacant place for 
Barney.” 


Drop^s Dog. 


The preliminaries were soon arranged, and the un- 
truthful yet kind-hearted boy, who had never passed 
a night away from his father and mother, was nearly 
heart-broken at the idea of being separated from 
them. His parents endeavored to impress upon his 
mind the reason they had for sending him away, and 
promised that as soon as he became cured of the bad 
habit he should return to his home. 

Barney tearfully reiterated his intention of trying to 
do better, but his father was inexorable in his resolve 
to send him to the school. 

As the deacon and Mrs. Drop bade' their little 
weeping son and Miss Topliff good-by at the door of 
the car that was to take them to Orchard Homestead, 
the name of the school, they felt that they themselves 
were making a sore sacrifice for their boy’s future 
good. 

After a day or two Barney wrote home : ‘‘I’m so 
homesick I can’t eat tarts — and that’s pretty bad. 
But, if I cry, Philip Hess — he’s the red-headed boy — 
calls me ‘rain-drops,’ and Barr — he’s the boy with 
checked trousers — calls me ‘dew-drops,’ and the 
boy with the red neck-bow, that they call Twigg, 
says, ‘ See the tear-drops dripping.’ 

“ I like the crooked-nose boy best ; they call him 
Bean. Though, to be sure, when I was cross once he 


Drop's Dog. 


called me ‘ vinegar drops.’ When I treated them all 
on the candy I brought from home they called me 
‘ peppermint drops ’ and ‘ lemon drops.’ The names 
of the other two boys are Witt and Pace. They’ve all 
got first names, but they don’t use them. We all like 
the master ; he calls me Drop. He talks about how 
wicked it is to be wicked, especially to tell lies, and 
I am being better.” 

Mr. Topliff, the teacher, wrote to Deacon Drop 
glowing accounts of Barney’s good behavior, and said 
he had not been caught in a wrong story since he had 
been with him. 

Mrs. Drop sent her little son weekly letters, por- 
tions of which he always read to the boys, and they 
wished they had such home-folks, who would write to 
them such jolly letters. 

“ Father has bought a dog for me, and is learning 
him to do all sorts of tricks,” Barney announced one 
day after receiving one of his mother’s entertaining 
letters. The boys would not have been boys had 
they not been all excitement over this piece of news, 
and asked numberless questions about the wonderful 
animal. 

“ Where did he buy it What did he pay for it ? 
How large is it ? What color } What breed What 
is his name ? What can he do ” 


Drop's Dog. 


Drop couldn’t tell, but would ask his mother in 
his next letter, and would write to her immediately. 
The next letter^came in due time, and the seven eager 
boys gathered wide-eyed about the eighth to hear the 
news. 

“ Father bought him of a blind beggar boy,” read 
Drop glibly, “ and paid fifty dollars for him, enough 
to pay the blind boy’s fare to Boston, and to have his 
eyes doctored.” 

“ That’s just like father,” said Drop parenthetically, 
looking up from the letter. 

“ I wish I could send the blind boy something,” 
said Bean, the crooked-nose boy. “ And I ! ” “ And 
I ! ” “ And I ! ” chorused all the boys, generously 
feeling in their pockets, and not finding anything but 
cotton strings and marbles, and such like school-boy 
commodities. Then they withdrew their hands, and 
turned their attention once more to the dog. 

“ He’s a big black and white St. Bernard dog,” 
went on Drop, “ big enough for me to ride upon as I 
would a pony.” 

“ I tell you father wouldn’t buy me no little dog,” 
commented Drop again. 

“ The dog used to carry the blind boy on his back 
from house to house. Mother says the day he came 
there it was raining, and Isaac — that’s the blind boy’s 





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Drop^s Dog. 


name — was sitting on Highjink’s back — that’s the 
dog’s name — and Isaac was holding an umbrella over 
his head, and Highjinks had a little basket in his 
mouth, and mother says she never saw anything so 
funny in her life ! ” 

How good you do read writing,” said Hess admir- 
ingly, “ and call all the big words. I have to study 
out all the long words in mine.” 

“ O, mother’s writing is just as plain as print,” said 
Barney, cramming the letter into his pants’ pocket ; 
“ anybody could read it.” 

“ Father has hired a dog-trainer to come out from 
the city and educate Highjinks,” rapidly read Drop 
from his next letter, as the boys were grouped around 
him, under the shade of a large apple-tree near the 
school-building. “ He comes two days in the week, 
and mother says he says that there is nothing but 
what that dog is capable of doing. He dances like 
a bear, and climbs like a monkey, and runs like a fox, 
and grunts like a pig, and gobbles like a turkey, and 
bleats like a sheep — and he’s learning him to say 
Barney. I tell you, boys, I want to go home and see 
that dog.” 

The boys were wild over Drop’s dog. It was the 
sensation of the school, and Drop’s letters from his 
mother were as anxiously waited for by the seven boys 
as by Drop himself. 


Drop's Dog. 


“ Father has had a carriage made for Highjinks,” 
the mother’s wonderfully plain print in her next letter 
said. “ It is large enough for two to ride in. It is 
painted blue like the sky and yellow like gold, and 
there are green and white flowered velvet cushions, 
and the harness is made of shiny red leather trimmed 
with silver stars ! 

“ Mother says it’s the gayest little turn-out in all 
that region, and that Highjinks is just as proud of 
it as a boy would be. When he is harnessed up he 
barks joyously, as much as to say, ‘ If I am not a 
pony it’s not my fault, but I will serve my young 
master as well as if I was one.’ The other day 
he took father to the village in five minutes, and 
there is no horse that can go over the road in that 
time. Mother says he just straightens himself right 
out, and that I ought to see him claw it I He goes 
just like a streak ! ” 

“ Your mother writes ever so much like a boy ! ” 
said Witt. 

“ I know it,” replied Drop unhesitatingly \ “ it is 
because I hadn’t any brother, and she has always 
played with me just as if she was a boy, because she 
didn’t like to have me go down to the village to play 
for fear I should get in with bad companions.” 

“ If it had been told — read, I mean, anywhere but 
here,” said Trigg to Hess that night, as they sat on 


Drop's Dog. 


top of the high board fence that enclosed the school- 
grounds, watching for the evening stage, “ I should 
say that Drop spread it on about that dog pretty 
thick.” 

“ That’s so,” said Hess ; “ but nobody would dare 
tell fibs at this school after hearing the master’s lec- 
tures about liars. Drop is a good fellow, anyway ; he 
says he wishes we could all go home with him and 
see Highjinks.” 

And the boys all agreed that Drop was the best 
boy in school j the owner of such a wonderful dog 
was a hero indeed. 

Mr. Topliff wrote in one of his letters to Deacon 
and Mrs. Drop what a favorite their son Barney was 
with all his boys. The delighted parents wrote back 
entreating that Barney and his seven mates might 
come to them and spend the two days’ Fourth of July 
vacation. There would be quantities of roses and 
strawberries and fresh milk, and the boys could fire 
Chinese crackers with impunity in the broad meadow 
back of the house. 

The boys were delighted, and could think of noth- 
ing else. They had Mr. Topliff write to their parents 
and guardians, and in a few days consent had been 
given by them all that the short vacation should be 
spent at Deacon Drop’s. 

“Mother says that they have sheared Highjinks 


Drop's Dog. 


now,” Barney said the day before the boys were to 
set out. “ He looks just like a lion, and when they 
tell him to ‘roar’ he whll shake his mane and make 
such a noise that it almost makes your hair stand on 
end.” 

The boys made the journey by a short steam-car 
trip, Mr. Topliff putting them in the care of Con- 
ductor Weymouth. 

“Do you suppose Highjinks will come to the 
depot ? ” asked Hess. 

“ I don’t know,” said Barney, “ I presume so.” 

But to their disappointment there was only Deacon 
Drop in a three-seated express wagon, drawn by the 
old black-farm-horse Roger, and the little dog Sancho, 
close to his master’s feet. He was delighted to see 
Barney, throwing himself upon his back, and then 
nearly wriggling himself out of his glossy brindle coat. 

Barney went with his father to see about the bag- 
gage, and while the deacon was putting it into the 
wagon Barney hurriedly told the boys that he had in- 
quired for Highjinks, and his father had said that 
Isaac, the blind boy, had wanted him brought to Bos- 
ton when his eyes were operated upon. And Barney 
lugubriously added, “ Isaac has died, and Highjinks 
feels so badly about it he hasn’t eaten anything since, 
and will not notice an)'one, and father expects to hear 
every day that he is dead, too. 


Drop^s Dog, 


“ Father and mother feel awfully about it, and 
father says mother cries if anyone mentions High- 
jinks, she has become so attached to him. So we 
mustn’t, any of us, say a word about him.” 

The little fellows were all well-bred, considerate 
boys, and they kept their great disappointment to 
themselves. 

Arriving at Barney’s home they set about enjoying 
the visit in spite of all. 

On the day after their arrival a letter came from 
Mr. Topliff, which Deacon Drop read aloud to them 
at the tea-table that had been set in the yard under 
the cherry trees. 

It was a nice, holiday letter, just such a one as Mr. 
Topliff knew how to write to amuse his pupils, and to 
make them want to go back to him. At the close of 
the letter he inquired about “ Highjinks ” and 
“Isaac.” 

“What does he mean by ‘Highjinks’ and 
‘ Isaac ’ ? ” asked Mrs. Drop. 

“Why, the dog, you know, and the blind boy who 
sold the dog to Barney’s father ! ” the boys all said in 
concert. 

Barney sat there in his chair looking disconcerted 
enough. He was nonplussed for once. In his utter 
discomforture no subterfuge of words came to the 


Drop's Dog. 


rescue. He had arrived at the rope’s end. No au- 
dacious explanation or bold effrontery could help him 
now. 

Mr. and Mrs. Drop now understood that it was one 
of Barney’s stories. The poor mother burst into 
tears, while the deacon rose, left the table, and went 
to the barn. 

The boys looked at one another in blank aston- 
ishment. 

At last Barney opened his mouth. 

“I couldn’t stop telling stories all at once,” said 
the sobbing boy. “ When I felt as if I must tell a 
whopper I told it about ‘ Highjinks.’ ” 

That mortifying exposure cured Barney of telling 
wrong stories. His generous, sympathetic nature 
* quickly took in the miserable consequences of lying, 
even when it is resorted to with no malicious intent. 
He resolutely determined before he returned with the 
boys to Orchard Homestead that the evil habit 
should be conquered, and that he would regain the 
confidence of his school-fellows. 

Under the continued tutelage of Mr. Topliff, and 
by the means of his own ever alert watchfulness. 
Barney Drop eventually overcame his besetting sin. 
He grew to be a prosperous merchant, and the scores 
of business men with whom he deals say that “ his 
word is as good as his note.” 


MY BOARDER. 



don’t know when I shall 


UNTIE, are you willing to 
take another boarder ? ” 
Thus Benjie, coming in 
one day, with a very mys- 
terious expression on his 
face, and no hat on his 
head. 

Benjie is my favorite 
nephew. I was trying 
my best to comply with 
his requests as often as 
possible, during his sum- 
mer sojourn with me, be- 
cause he is going to Eu- 
rope with his father and 
mother in the fall, to 
spend some years, and I 
see the dear boy again. 


My Boarder. 


So I replied : 

“ Perhaps I will — if it is a very small, nice one, 
and you will pay me suitably.” 

I understood something of what a “boarder” 
meant in Benjie’s phraseology, having already taken 
a little dog, a rabbit and a guinea hen on his account, 
and having refused to allow a white mouse, a monkey, 
or a cat to be brought upon my premises. 

“ I know it’s little and I guess it’s nice ; it looks ' 
so. I’ll saw six more sticks of wood a day to pay for 
its board.” 

However, I didn’t like to complete my bargain 
without seeing the proposed boarder, for it might be 
a mole or a snapping turtle, or something else horri- 
ble, for aught I knew, yet be “ nice ” in Benjie’s opin- 
ion. 

He went to the door and came back again bringing 
his hat upside down, neatly covered with his handker- 
chief. He placed the hat on the table, shut the door, 
turned up the shutters of the blinds, took the hand- 
kerchief off the hat, and invited me to look. I 
stepped forward cautiously and peeped in; for I 
thought perhaps it was something that would jump at 
me. Fut it proved to be a young bird with its tail 
and wing feathers not fully grown, sitting in a ner- 
vous manner upon the grass with which Benjie had 
















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My Boarder. 


half-filled his hat. The hat was a pretty brown straw 
trimmed with blue ribbon ; the grass tender and green ; 
the bird was really pretty for a young bird, and, on 
the whole, it was not an uninteresting sight, espe- 
cially with Benjie standing in the background with 
flushed cheeks, bright, eager, pleading eyes, and 
golden-brown hair tossed into a myriad of curls around 
his good-natured face. 

“ What kind of a bird is it, Benjie ? ” 

“ A brown thrasher.” 

“ A brown thrush, you mean.” 

“No, a brown thrasher. Mike told me so, and he 
knows every bird around here and can mimic them, 
too. I’ve learned to mimic some. See here ! ” 

And Benjie commenced whistling a succession of 
shrill notes interspersed with, “ that’s a quail, you 
see,” and “that’s a blue jay,” etc., until I was half 
distracted. 

“ That will do, please. Where did you find the 
bird ? ” 

“ It couldn’t fly you know, and I suppose it got 
left behind when the other ones flew away. Mike says 
they do sometimes. Two boys were playing with it 
in the street down by the mill ; I knew they’d hurt it, 
and I bought it with some marbles. You say it’s 
cruel to let such helpless things get hurt, but I don’t 


My Boarder. 


see the use of taking it away from naughty boys if 
you can’t take care of it yourself until it is able to 
fly. 

Yielding to this forcible argument, I told Benjie he 
might go into the attic and get an old cage that was 
there to put the bird in, and then place the cage in 
the room behind the kitchen which Mike used for a 
work-room on rainy days ; — that is, if he thought he 
could be sure and remember the bargain of six extra 
sticks a day. For I think it is an excellent practice 
to teach little folks to return some equivalent for 
what they receive, as that is what we all have to come 
to when we grow up. 

Benjie brought down the cage and spread grass 
nearly all over the bottom of it. As the little glass 
jars at the side seemed rather out of reach of this 
clumsy little bird, I let him have two little white 
dishes, into one of which he put water, and gave him 
an egg and a potato to boil, — telling him how to mix 
them when they were done, — to put into the other 
dish. 

He was busy with his brown “ thrasher ” the re- 
mainder of the morning, and told me triumphantly at 
noon it had eaten as hearty a dinner as any of us “ ac- 
cording to its bigness.” I almost repented of my 
bargain, when he added : 


My Boarder. 


“ Mike says some fresh meat will be good for it 
every day, chopped fine and mixed with cracker- 
crumbs and egg. 

“ I suppose you will give him Pet’s eggs ? ” I ven- 
tured to say. 

“ I guess not, auntie ; you agreed to board him. 
Pet’s eggs are mine. You are to board him and I 
am to pay his board in sticks. Of course, I shan’t 
pay for his board and then board him myself.” 

He was too shrewd for me, I said no more. If I 
had made a bad bargain I must abide by it honor- 
ably. 

Benjie named his “ thrasher ” Josephus, a very un- 
suitable name, suggested by the large gilt letters on 
the back of one of the volumes in the library. But 
as the learned Jew had long ceased to be sensitive to 
such trifles, I did not oppose the fancy. 

Josephus lived and thrived. By the last of the 
month ( August ) he had become very handsome, hav- 
ing now a full suit of beautiful brown feathers neatly 
trimmed with white. He had been treated with such 
invariable kindness and so universally petted, that he 
was as tame as possible. 

His cage in the work-room was left constantly open, 
giving him the liberty of the room whenever he was 
inclined to avail himself of it. When the inner door 


My Boarder. 


was open he would hop out into the kitchen to amuse 
himself picking up crumbs, or climbing upon the dish 
which stood by the sink to receive refuse scraps from 
the table, and dipping his bill among the contents. 

Until he began to moult, he sang very blithely and 
sweetly, mimicing the wild birds out of doors in addi- 
tion to his own notes, and affording us much enter- 
tainment. 

Mike frequently caught bugs and grasshoppers for 
Josephus, of which the latter was very fond, and the 
way in which the bird played with these insects and 
tossed them about with his pretty bill to beat the life 
out of them, was doubtless, less amusing to the vic- 
tims than to Mike. 

I knew the great rough Irishman would never un- 
derstand or abide by such fastidious tenderness, be- 
sides being too old to be reproved or taught in such 
a matter by me, but I had strictly forbidden Benjie to 
kill, or cause to be killed, anything but mosquitos ; 
for I think the habit of killing insects and small ani- 
mals leads to a heartlessness and heedlessness in re- 
gard to the lives and happiness of others, which I 
should be very sorry to see developing in the charac- 
ter of my warm-hearted, generous, little nephew. 

It happened, one delightful morning after Benjie 
and Mike had spent fifteen minutes at the outer door 


• My Boarder. 


of the work room giving Josephus an airing, by allow- 
ing him to hop around in the grass about the door- 
step, that Mike, just as he was starting for the field, 
captured a grasshopper and tossed it to Josephus who 
sprang at his favorite prey with great avidity. 

Benjie was somewhat disconcerted. He had be- 
gun to fancy that Mike had almost come over to our 
humane philosophy, the young preacher having given 
him a lecture on the subject upon every suitable oc- 
casion. He began on this occasion : 

“ Now, Mike, that’s too bad ! I thought you’d 
stopped doing that. I’ve told you I didn’t want Jo- 
sephus encouraged in eating live things. I guess you 
wouldn’t like to be thrown into a great sharp bill de- 
termined to tear you in pieces.” 

Mike strode off laughing, and Benjie, partly to fol- 
low up the scolding, and partly because he intended to 
go to the field with Mike and see if the water-melons 
were ripe, picked up Josephus, who had already dis- 
patched the grasshopper, put him hastily in the work 
room, shut the door, and ran down the lane after 
Mike, carelessly leaving a new magazine open on the 
grass for the chickens to walk over if they felt so dis- 
posed. 

I was sitting in the bay window of my room a wit- 
, ness to all that occurred, and thinking it easier to re- 
place the book than run and call after such a swift- 


My Boarder. 


footed youngster, I went to the work room and opened 
the outside door to get the book, unconcious how ear- 
nestly Josephus was longing to get out of doors again 
and pick up grasshoppers for himself, to his heart’s 





content. I had scarcely opened the door, when some- 
thing fluttered over my head, and looking up I saw 
the “ thrasher ” making off on rapid wing. 

High and far he flew, the bird that had never be- 
fore tried the full power of his wings. How glorious 
it must have been to him, this discovery of his won- 


My Boarder. 


derful gift for flight j a discovery so suddenly made 
through fear of my catching him and bringing him 
back from the beautiful world out of doors, where 
other birds were so gladsomely singing. .. 

Away he flew down into the distant meadows, his 
pretty wings filled with such nervous haste as spurs 
the limbs of little racers who play tag with a swift 
runner behind or before. The birds and the grass- 
hoppers were before him, and I with my power to 
compel to durance, was behind. 

There was our civilized little Josephus down in the 
midst of the wild birds, chuckling over my surprise 
and annoyance, as I stood in the doorway looking 
helplessly after him — the arch little rogue. 

But, of course, I should not attempt chasing a bird 
especially as I knew I could not catch him in his then 
runaway mood. Let him stay until he was ready to 
turn, or, if he chose to remain away permanently 
there was so much saving of meat, cracker and egg. 
Indeed, I thought he was about old enough to find 
his own living. 

Picking up the book I came in, leaving the door 
open in ‘case Josephus should wish to return ; for 
there now arose in my imagination two sweet, re- 
proachful eyes, two very quivering lips, and big tears 
coursing down two round cheeks, woefully. 


My Boarder, 


This picture became so affecting, that, after I had 
been seated at my sewing a few minutes I went back 
and put the cage out by the doorstep. I wonder if 
the little runaway witnessed the proceeding, and 
laughed again at my attempts to lure him back to 
gloom and captivity on that beautiful August morn- 
ing. 

Hours passed and Benjie did not return I con- 
jectured that, as on previous occasions, he had shared 
Mike’s lunch, and then taken the lunch basket and 
gone off blackberrying, in which case, he would not 
appear until one o’clock, the dinner hour. 

Nor was I mistaken. He came home with a mouth 
like a charcoal bin, swinging a basket nearly full of 
the blackest of blackberries. 

“ Who put the cage out there ? ” he demanded, as 
soon as he came to the back gate. 

“I did.” 

“What for? And what’s the door open for? 
And where’s Josephus ? Who’s been doing it ? ” 

“The cage is out there for Josephus to look at, the 
door is open to tell him he is welcome ; and if you 
mean who left the door open, and who put the cage 
there, I did.” 

“ Who let him out ? that’s what I want to know.” 

“ I did that, too.” 


My Boarder. 


“ I’d like to know what for ! ” he exclaimed hastily, 
with crimsoned face and choking voice. 

“ It was entirely accidental, Benjie. If you had 
been an orderly boy and put things in their places, it 
would not have happened,” I said, placing myself on 
the defensive. “ I went out to pick up the magazine 
you left on the grass ; as soon as I opened the door 
Josephus flew over my head and off into the mead- 
ows.” 

Benjie was too young a logician to find an answer 
to a plea like this \ he said no more, but put his 
basket on the gate post, and started off on a full run, 
for the meadows. 

About the middle of the afternoon, he came back 
home, looking tired, and sulky, and a little ashamed. 
Bridget offered him some dinner, which he refused. 
He stole into the library and got Robinson Crusoe, 
then retired to the orchard where he lay down under 
the sweet apple tree, and read and ate apples till he 
fell asleep. 

I went off for a ride with cousin Sarah. I reached 
home again about dusk. Supper was just ready. I 
asked for Benjie. Bridget said he was at the barn 
with Mike. I told her to go and tell him to come in 
to tea. She went down toward the barn and called 
him, but he did not obey promptly. As the work- 


My Boarder. 


room door was nearer the barn than any other door, 
I went through the kitchen to the work-room, and 
called out in an imperative voice : 

“ Benjie, come here at once.” 

I soon heard slow steps approaching. 

“ Benjie, why did you not come as soon as Bridget 
called you ? ” 

“I didn’t know as anybody in particular wanted 
me, and I was helping Mike,” said a sweet but some 
what surly little voice. 

“ What makes you so sullen, Benjie ? I am ashamed 
of you.” 

‘‘Josephus will never come back again,” he replied 
in solemn measured tones. 

“ Very well, that is no fault of mine.” 

He followed me in silently. 

Just then there was a low chirp near us; we both 
stood still. There was another and another little 
chirp. 

Benjie said nothing. 

“ Bridget, bring a light here,” I called. 

Bridget brought a light, and there sat Josephus on 
the work-table among the tools, looking as calm and 
honest and innocent as if he had not been playing 
a trick on Benjie and me all day long. He had ev 
idently grown homesick, as the shades of evening fell 


My Boarder. 


in the quiet meadows, and longing for his old home 
and old friends had hurried back to the work- 
room. 

Benjie caught him in his hands, and putting him 
lovingly up against his cheek scolded and praised him 
by turns, with great fluency, first for going away and 
then for coming back again. 

I was as heartily glad as Benjie, though not so 
demonstrative. I had tea delayed until an egg could 
be boiled for Josephus, and his supper set forth in 
good style. 

Then Benjie, with a face from which every unpleas- 
ant expression had vanished, joined us in the dining- 
room, and went into raptures over the pretty case of 
drawing-pencils I had brought him from the city, de- 
ciding that his first sketch should be a portrait of Jo- 
sephus. 

The picture accompanying this narrative is an ex- 
act copy of that original sketch ; but I cannot say the 
original sketch is as faithful a portrait of Josephus. 

Those who have known the brown, or song thrush 
to be one of the most timid and wary of all our wild 
birds will be interested to know that this story of the 
domestication of one of that family is not a fabrica- 
tion, but the history of an actual fact. 


A FOX. 


“/^^OUSIN JAMES, what does foxy mean ? What 
is it to be foxy ? I have heard Aunt Kit tell 
Uncle Rob his moustache was foxy, just to tease him 
but I don’t see how it did. And I have heard grand- 
father say Martin Van Buren was foxy; he was the 
eighth president, you know. And, Cousin James, 
everybody says ‘cunning as a fox.’ Did you ever see 
one? Are they anywhere now ? ” 

“ Certainly, there are foxes yet. I have seen many 
a one ! ” 

“ For sure ones. Cousin James ? 

‘'Yes, ‘for sure ones,’ some that were very ‘for 
sure,’ I thought.” 

“ Oh, do tell us about them ! tell us a fox story, 
won’t you, a real true one ? ” 

“Well, boys, I don’t mind if I do, for I am the 
young fellow that can.” 















A Fox. 


And they all laughed, for his whiskers were as white 
as their grandfather’s. 

“ Oh, that will be jolly ! ” exclaimed Rob, “ you are 
just tip top. Cousin James! ” And Rob clapped his 
hands and jumped ever so high and struck his heels 
together as an accompaniment — or perhaps as an 
escapement — for some of his vim, for Rob was a very 
live boy indeed. But he always quieted down in a 
hurry when there was a story to be told. He was 
always a good listener when that was “ the business,” 
as he termed it, and in a moment he was all eyes as 
well as ears, for it was a good deal to see Cousin 
James tell a story, as well as to hear him. 

“When I was a lad,” said Cousin James, “my 
father lived half a dozen miles from Albany, out 
towards the Helderbergs. The name has rather a 
wicked sound to people who have never heard any 
Holland Dutch, and perhaps it has to you.” 

“ Oh ! no, it hasn’t, we know what it means. It’s 
clear mountains, or clear hills, and you know moun- 
tains are only big hills, I think it is just splendid. 
Grandfather told us long ago. He knows every- 
thing!^' 

“ Ho, ho !’” said Cousin James, with a grand air and 
a saddened tone that made him seem almost as wise 
as an owl as well as very much injured in his own 
i6s 


A Fox, 


opinion of himself. “ He knows everything, does he ? 
Then he must know all about foxes — and it will — 
hardly — be worth while — ” 

And then he paused and looked at his watch, and 
looked out at the weather, and looked altogether as if 
he had other fish to fry and ‘ Grandfather’ could just 
as well do that lot as he, and in the opinion of the 
boys much better most likely. 

‘‘Oh!” cried Rob, “grandfather doesn’t know 
real fox stories. Cousin James, at least I don’t think 
he does 1 He knows just about stories in books, and 
about people ever so far off that you don’t care about 
— that is — so very much when you are boys, you 
know! Do stay and tell us, I didn’t mean any- 
thing ! ” 

Well, Cousin James “ didn’t mean anything ” either, 
except to tease, and so he went on with his story. 

“ Something was stealing our chickens, and it did 
not take long to discover that the thief was a sly old 
fox — his tracks were plain to be seen — but we were 
long enough in finding how to get rid of him, or 
rather how to outwit him, and although we knew the 
fox pretty well then, we knew him much better after- 
ward. It is a good deal to be as cunning as a fox. 
Boys have to be pretty smart for that. And our 
American fox, called the red fox — though he is only 


A Fox, 


a reddish yellow — is the cunningest of all the foxes. 
We were four boys, with plenty of work and school to 
do, and but few pennies to spend in powder ; even if 
we had had time to become practical shots. Besides, 
we were mostly too small to handle well the old-fash- 
ioned, heavy gun that father used on training days, 
and we had no other. They didn’t have big guns 
and little guns, and all sorts of guns, then, as they do 
now.” 

“What were ‘training days,’ Cousin James? do we 
have those now, too ? ” 

“ Why I expect boys train yet, or get trained ! ” 

“ Oh ! you know it isn’t that kind I mean ! What 
kind was it to tram with guns ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t know what is the good of your 
learned grandfather,” replied Cousin James, with an- 
other of his grand airs, “if he has never told you 
about a militia training ! Why, it was just the gayest 
thing ! It was none of your select soldiering of now- 
a-days ! Every man, that wasn’t old — wasn’t forty- 
five I mean, — for I am young, you know — (the boys 
giggle) shouldered a gun and learned how fields 
were won ! Our standing army was a big thing in 
those times ! But dear me ! I can’t tell two stories 
at once, if I am young. Father left it to us, to do the 
chickens and the foxes, or rather the fox, as best we 


A Fox. 


could. He had had enough of that kind of thing and 
would have thought it a waste of time and money too 
for him to engage in it. 

“ Our reason for thinking there was but one fox 
was not only because we found the tracks of but,one, 
but because we knew it was the habit of the fox to go 
about alone. He is sly, even with his kind, and when 
he starts out for something to eat, he doesn’t invite his 
neighbor fox to go along, neither to dine wdth him 
when he gets back, and he is never supposed to 
attend tea parties where he might forget and possibly 
gossip of any poultry yard or rabbit warren he knows 
of. 

“ I was the youngest, but I counted one in all the 
planning. We had had practice with traps of one 
kind and another. We had caught rabbits, wood- 
chucks, weasels, and why could we not catch a fox, 
even though it was said foxes were rarely caught in 
that way, that they were much too cunning? He 
might accidentally get into a trap, whatever his inten- 
tions. It was as much as we could do to keep out of 
them ourselves, and more than we had always done. 
There had nearly been a toe lost on one occasion — 
Brother Tom had set his foot down in the wrong 
place, — and so we decided to try that mode. 

“ Well, we had set our traps for a month and we 


A Fox. 


had ‘ slept on our guns,’ as you might say. We had 
been ready to pounce on the enemy at the first signal 
of alarm from the hen-roost. We had been up every 
morning with the sun, we had not been called once ! 
The expectation of finding the enemy fast in one of 
our traps was quite enough to start us out betimes. 
But never a fox did we see ! nothing but his tracks ! 
and every morning another chicken gone — when we 
fed and counted them ! 

At length we concluded to try shutting them up in 
the barn, nights, and making that fox-proof, for the 
fox sees in the dark like a cat, and usually gets his 
food nights and sleeps day-times, at least he keeps 
out of sight days, and we may suppose sleeps, when 
he is not too busy plotting and planning about his 
daily bread 

“ We were up the next day earlier than usual, quite 
in the gray of the morning, and for the first time we 
got a glimpse of Master Reynard He was making 
off at the top of his speed, but with never a chicken 
that time! We wished him a pleasant good morning, 
and wished him farther^ as we hurrahed and shouted 
after him. 

But, he sold us ! 

“After we had looked about awhile and fed the 
sheep and cows, we let out the fowls and fed them. 


A Fox. 


We had been careful to shut them all in, turkeys and 
geese too, for any of them would have been a dainty 
bit to Reynard. It had got to be broad daylight and 
we all stood there in the bright morning sun, watch- 
ing them eating, admiring one and another, telling 
which were ours — and ours — and thinking what 
lucky fellows we were, for all, when behold ! there 
was the fox again ! and just making off with brother 
Jo’s Dominique hen, right before our face and eyes ! 
While we thought he had gone away, for that day at 
least — we had not expected much more than that — 
he had only gone to wait till we should let them out 
and then give him a chance to get his breakfast. 

“ Brother Sam — he was the eldest of us — started 
after him. He knew he would not go far holding the 
hen by the neck, just as he had seized her, and drag- 
ging her on the ground (his legs are short), but would 
stop and throw her over his back. For although the 
fox is small, only two feet or a little more in length, 
he is strong, and besides has a big bushy tail that 
does him good service in balancing with whatever 
load he may choose to lay on, chicken, turkey or 
other. . 

“ Brother Sam’s plan was to overtake him and get 
the hen away, when he stopped to make the change. 
He did not, however, succeed in getting quite up with 


A jFox. 


the fox, but he got near enough to frighten him into 
dropping his prey, by shouting and luckily throwing 
his hat so that it fell over the fox’s head. 

“ We regarded his success as a second victory for 
our side ; we made a close count of our gains, they 
were so few. Keeping the fox out of the barn was 
one, in our opinion, and getting the stolen hen back 
again -would have been one more in any boy’s count- 
ing, I am sure. We thought we had won at last ; but 
Reynard was hungry and Reynard was brave — on 
that occasion at least ; though he is called rather 
timid. And besides he had won so many victories he 
didn’t know defeat, So, while we were talking over 
the recapture, what should he do — but come back 
again and get another good fat hen, before we knew 
he was anywhere around. We thought he had gone, 
that time, straight to his hole or wherever he lived. 
But we had learned ‘ the art of war ’ and we got that 
back too. 

‘‘Well, then you would have thought sure that he 
would have given up stealing our chickens, to say the 
least, for that morning’s breakfast; for there we 
stood, four strong yet, Sam, Tom, Jo and I, beside an 
outlying force of cackling geese, as well as hens, that 
made noise enough to have saved Rome half a dozen 
times over, even without the aid of the big gobbler 


A Fox. 

and squalking old peacock that strutted about and 
spread his tail in the face of most everybody ! How- 
ever, the peacock's tail might have been a screen for 
Master Reynard. 

“ But whatever you would have thought, or anybody 
would have thought, he did no such thing, but just 
went for still another ‘good fat hen,’ and you had 
better believe we went for him too, for we just did 
and we got her ! the third one ! back again, but never 
a hair of the thief yet. 

“ However, that time he did go to the woods. It 
was not very far off, only a field between, and there 
was no possuming about it either — no skulking 
behind bushes and the like, for we saw him every 
step of the way, and ho intended we should! He 
thought we would then go to our own breakfast and 
leave him to get his in peace and quiet. Quite likely 
he had heard it said the third time always conquers, 
and thought we believed it, but we did not ; at least 
we did not believe we had driven him off, and more, 
we didn’t believe he could be driven off, and we must ' 
therefore be in at his death in some shape — the poul- 
try could not be kept shut up all day. 

“ We held a council of war and concluded to bor- 
row neighbor Freeman’s hound and try what we 
could do with him — Tom went for him while the 
rest of us stood guard. 


A Pox. 


“We had plumped on the grand idea of hunting 
Reynard in his hole as Putnam did the wolf. If Ave 
did not win a renown that should take us down to 
posterity, we should at least make ourselves famous 
in the neighborhood. 

“ But whether it was that we did not know how to 
manage the dog, or that he had not a keen scent, or 
that the fox had utterly outwitted us once more, was 
never quite clear, but whichever it was, when we got 
to what we thought was about the place where he had 
his bed and board, and there were plenty of feathers 
and bones lying about, in evidence of it, too, the 
hound had lost the scent — he positively refused to 
make any search ! 

“ We were quite sure, however, that so bold a fox 
as he would be around again shortly for something 
to stay his stomach, even if getting in his provisions 
by day was not his usual habit. So we held a new 
council of war and decided upon another plan — we 
would bring the old gun into action. 

“We took the dog to the house and gave him a 
place besides the kitchen fire, where he would not 
only be out of sight, but contented enough not to 
bark ; and then took up a position in the hay-loft where 
we could overlook the approaches of the enemy. 

“ Brother Sam, being the older as well as larger, of 
course, manned the gun. He was stationed at th^ 


A Fox. 


upper door, where we threw hay down to the cattle. 
The rest of us were posted at various cracks and 
knot-holes and so had a good field view. And sure 
enough, we did not wait long before out popped Rey- 
nard from the woods, though by no means from the 
place where he went in \ he thought we might be 
watching that. Possibly he had been to some other 
cupboard and found it bare and was on his way back, 
but in any event, he most likely had in mind one of 
his usual tricks of war, a little game of hide and seek. 
He looked cautiously about, to satisfy himself the 
way was clear. He was evidently persuaded, how- 
ever, that there was possible danger in store for him 
somewhere, for he had not got far before he stopped 
and rolled himself white, in a light snow that had 
fallen the night before. If he had known our posi- 
tion and the watch we had on him, he doubtless 
would have done so before he commenced his march 
in the open field. Then, again, he would lie flat 
down on the ground for awhile, making believe he 
was but the ground, in order to deceive us as well as 
get an opportunity to listen and look about at his 
leisure. 

“ The senses of the fox are all keen j he can hear 
as well as he can see, and sound is louder with the 
ear to the ground, but he did not catch the sound of 
our footsteps that time j several feet of hay was too 







A Fox, 


thick a cushion under them. Then he would roll 
himself white again in the snow and shelter himself 
behind bushes, or anything else in his way. Finally, 
by short stages, — for his snow mantle had to be put 
on a good many times — he got within range of our 
gun and we prepared to open fire on him. The man 
in charge of the old-flint lock — percussion-caps had 
not been heard of then, brought it cautiously to bear 
on him. 

“Well, boys, I suppose you know what running is, 
most boys do, but if you had been there when the 
muzzle of that gun appeared over the edge of the door 
and had seen that fox run, you would have thought he 
went by telegraph ! There was nothing but a streak, 
and a mighty short one, at that. 

“ It was, of course, very provoking, having anything 
going through your poultry yard stealing and destroy- 
ing as he did. He carried off and killed some fifty, 
all told, of our chickens, before we were done with 
him — but foxes 'feed also on rats, mice, moles, wood- 
chucks, and it would have been quite as much 
economy in the long run to have winked at more of 
I heir thieving, they would have kept down — ” 

“ But, Cousin James, what did you do next ? How 
did you get rid of the fox ? ” 

“ We moved away.” 



THE AETIST AND THE BEAE. 


OUR long years the artist and I worked together 



jL and camped together, and rode side by side 
among the crags and the forests and the canons of 
the Rocky mountains. Night after night our blankets 
have been spread beside the camp-fire, sometimes we 
two alone, sometimes surrounded by three or four 
companions, but alone, or with a larger party, the 
artist and I have always been together. 

Often, for days and weeks, we rode and worked and 
sketched and slept without seeing a single human 
being but the laboring men who were our “ packers,” 
and often, from the very loneliness of our surround- 
ings, riding for hours through the great wilderness 
without exchanging a single word. Being so much 
together, and so much alone together I know the artist 
pretty well, and I know he is a brave, cool man, and 


The Artist and the Bear. 


this story is to be a story of his bravery and his coolness 
and one that will show something of what a lonely 
kind of a life is led away off among the great moun- 
tains of the West. 

One night a little party of four of us were camped 
close up under the snow drifts which all summer long 
patch the mountain summits. The place of the camp 
was a little grassy valley just at the mouth of a deep 
canon, and all surrounded by the heaviest kind of 
dark pine timber, and watered by a little stream not 
more than an hour away from its mother snow-drift. 
We were more than a hundred miles from the nearest 
house, and, lying that evening by our camp-fire, could 
distinctly hear now and then the crackling of a bush 
or dry branch, as some deer came stealing round to 
see what the great camp-fire blaze could mean, or 
what new kind of an animal it was which had come 
to keep him company in this lonely place. 

Sometimes, too, a mule would give a startled snort 
as he smelled out the neighborhood of a prowling 
bear, for our faithful mules were good guards, and 
never let a bad intruder into camp without giving 
their warning. 

Away off in so lonely a place, it is not strange that 
the party got to talking of Indians and bears, and 
telling stories we had heard or known some time of 


The Artist and the Bear. 


fights with one or with the other. There were espe- 
cially a good many bear stories told, and more than 
one of the grizzly bear, and how, wounded by a rifle 
shot, he would often live long enough to kill or maim 
the hunter, or to cripple him for life. The fact was 
stated that the grizzly bear would often live for some 
seconds when shot clear through the heart ; and one 
story told where the bear and the hunter had been 
found side by side dead ; the death-shot of the bear 
not having killed him soon enough to save the poor 
man’s life. 

I remember lying there on my heavy overcoat, and 
meditating the chances of a single shot with my light 
rifle if a bear should attack me, and finally, I think, 
coming to the conclusion that, as I had not lost any 
bears, I had not better hunt much for them. 

The artist sat on the ground close by me, cleaning 
his gun, and giving the lock now and then an omi- 
nous snap, as much as if he had thought, “ I guess 
you are a pretty good bear gun ! I think I would like 
to try you on a grizzly just once, anyhow.” 

The artist had a new gun and a particularly fine 
one j but he hadn’t shot any thing with it for some 
time, and, though he did not say much, he evidently 
had made up his mind to shoot something pretty 


soon. 


The Artist and the Bear, 


After we had talked and told stories by the camp- 
fire light for an hour or two we all went off to sleep, 
and, sleeping soundly till the next morning woke up 
at daylight to find that it was raining a little, but in 
spite of it we determined to climb up one of the high 
mountains near us. 

We were all pretty heavily loaded ; with our instru- 
ments, our big over-coats, our note-books, our rifles 
and field glasses. I remember the artist carried his 
army overcoat on one arm, his rifle on the other, 
while a geological hammer hung at his belt, and a 
field-glass and a sketch-book case were slung from his 
shoulders. During the. day we all got separated, and 
were working round alone, and, though we saw and 
fired at several deer, all were too far off for us to hit 
them. As I said, we were all separated in the moun- 
tains, but, as we are particularly interested in the 
artist you and I will follow him, and leave the others 
to get back to camp as best they may. 

As he worked and climbed along he was tempted 
so many times to shoot at distant or running deer, that 
when, late in the afternoon he left the mountain to 
come down to camp, he found himself the possessor 
of no game and only one cartridge. 

It was still raining ; he was tired, wet, hungry, and, 
heavily loaded as he was, had still two miles through 


The Artist and the Bear. 


the forest to walk before he would reach the camp- 
fire. It was not a pleasant prospect for a weary man, 
those last two miles at the end of a hard and rainy 
day, but as there was no help for it he started man- 
fully out, and shoving, jumping, stumbling, he worked 
his way along. 

He had already made about one half of the whole 
distance, and was grumbling to himself because he 
had seen and got no game all day. It was now almost 
night. The early twilight was rapidly deepening the 
forest darkness, the day noises were getting hushed, 
the little birds were just peeping out good-nights, the 
whole place getting more and more lonely and still, 
when, picking himself up from a tired man’s uncertain 
stumble, he felt a shiver run through him, as, just 
ahead in his path he heard a deep, ominous growl. 
His eyes sought the direction of the sound, and there, 
not more than twenty or thirty feet away, he saw, 
above a heavy fallen log, the long humped back and 
waving fur of an unmistakable grizzly bear ! 

Do you wonder he was startled ? away there alone 
in the wild canon, hampered by his heavy load, and 
having in his possession only one cartridge to meet so 
formidable an adversary right in his very path ! The 
artist is a cool man, but that tried his nerves. 

However, Bruin did not give him long to think, but, 
raising himself with his forepaws on the log, he gavQ 










The Artist and the Bear, 


another challenging growl, and stared the artist in his 
face, those big jaws open, the eyes sparkling, and all 
the hair about his face erect with his anger and sur- 
prise at this intrusion. The artist stood there, too, so 
fixed with his astonishment that he hardly knew how 
to act. I do not believe that he was really frightened, 
for it is not easy to frighten him ; but he certainly did 
stand there a moment so fixedly that the bear evidently 
concluded he did not want anything to do with so 
foolish a fellow, and quietly dropping off the log he 
started to walk away. 

By this time, though, the hunter’s blood was up in 
the artist, and, moving quickly up two or three steps, 
he called out, “ Boo ! boo ! ” 

Such impudence ! The bear turned round, and, 
trundling himself up to the log again, he raised at full 
height up over it, and looked down on his pigmy 
antagonist with a deep and angry growl. He stood 
there full breast towards the artist, towering above 
him like a disturbed giant as he was. This time the 
artist did not hesitate a moment, but, raising his gun 
deliberately, he aimed it at the animal’s broad breast. 
Doubting then if the lock was set rightly he lowered 
the gun, and, resetting it, he coolly raised it to his 
shoulder, selected his mark, and carefully, slowly 
aiming, he fired. 

The rifle’s crash went echoing down the canon, and 


The Artist and the Bear, 


before the smoke had cleared away the bear was tear- 
ing through the timber. Three or four jumps were 
all he made, and, pitching forward, all was still. The 
hunter listened for a moment, but no noise was in the 
woods except the still evening chirpings. Then mov- 
ing cautiously forward, he found the dead body of his 
grizzly bear stretched out upon the ground some thirty 
feet from the log where it had stood opposing him. 
The ball had gone through the animal, piercing both 
heart and lungs. 

Our hunter did not stay by his fallen enemy long, 
but, satisfied that it was really dead he left it lying 
there, and hurried on through the forest in the grow- 
ing darkness to the camp, and told us of his risky 
shot, and how his big dead bear was lying about a 
mile up the canon. The artist was a proud and happy 
man that night, and very thankful too. 

The next morning we helped him skin it, and 
carried the skin to camp to stretch and dry, and then 
he brought it with him East to have it dressed and 
trimmed ; and to-night, as I sit here writing in our 
bachelor quarters, the artist sits opposite me at the 
table, and his grizzly bear-skin lies between us as a 
handsome rug, a trophy and a memento of the West. 



THE FIRST AND LAST TOURNAMENT. 


HE nursery was in open rebellion, and all be- 



JL cause Hal and Mary had a secret. Grace said, 
“ Never mind if they have. I don’t care to know 
what it is ; I wouldn’t listen if they wanted to tell it 
to me.” 

Mab was very much troubled and hurt about it, for 
it was the first time anything of the kind had hap- 
pened. 

The twins, Tom and Paul, who if left to themselves 
would not have given it a second thought, now took 
sides with Mab, and were very angry. 

Sweet little Alice echoed the “ too bads ” and 
“ real means,” without understanding a word of the 
matter. 

Mab made up her mind she would find out the se- 
cret. As she was a most persevering little body, the 


2'he First and Last Tournament. 


boys felt sure she would. She explored every corner 
of the play-room, hunted in all the hiding-places in 
the garret, rummaged the desks in the school-room, 
and visited all the haunts in the garden, without suc- 
cess. At last she went to Hal’s room, and on his 
writing-desk found an open book which she pounced 
upon. It was “ Ivanhoe,” and as she had never read 
it she began at once on the page before her, hoping 
to find a clue to the secret. Her eyes fell upon a 
sentence which was marked with a pencil. It was 
this : 

“ At the flourish of clarions and trumpets they 
started out against each other at full gallop.” 

She read on for some time, and thought she was 
reading about rather a poor circus. All at once a 
light dawned upon her. 

“ I know what it is — they are going to get up a 
play ! ” She ran to the nursery, shouting, “ Hurrah, 
hurrah ! I’ve found it out ! ” 

The next thing was to come down upon the guilty 
ones, and the children started out to find them. 
Hunting and finding were two different matters. 
They searched the garden through and through, and 
called until they were hoarse. At last they came 
upon the gardener, who told them he saw Master Hal 
and Miss Mary go up into the barn chamber an hour 


The First a?id Last Tournament, 


ago. The four children scrambled up the steep 
stairs. Grace, true to her word, keeping in-doors. 
When they had passed through the low door they saw 
Mary, Hal, and three of his playmates, seated on boxes 
and broken chairs. 

Mab led the invaders, and, without waiting for re- 
ception or greeting, danced about in triumph, scream- 
ing: 

“ I’ve found it out, I’ve found it out ! It’s a play, 
and they all ride in on horses and fight.” 

The conspirators looked confounded. For a mo- 
ment all was still. Hal was the first to recover him- 
self. 

“ Well,” said he, “ you needn’t make so much noise 
about it ! ” 

The truth was, the necessity of more actors had be- 
gun to be felt, and it now seemed easy to secure them. 

“I say, Hal,” cried. Tom, “is it a circus ? Who’s 
to be the clown ? ” 

“ Do let me be the monkey,” said Paul. “ I can 
tie on Nancy’s old fur tippet for a tail.” 

“ Do be still ! ” exclaimed Mary. “ Who told you 
it was to be a circus ? It’s something much nicer, it’s 
a Tournament.” 

. Then came a long explanation, and at the end the 
children were wild with excitement. To be sure, 


The First and Last Tournamejit. 


their ideas were not very clear, but the pleasure of 
being dressed up and having a band was bliss 
enough. 

This is the way they arranged it : 

Hal was to be “ Ivanhoe, the Disinherited Knight.” 
His three companions, “ The Black Knight,” “ Brian 
de Bois-Guilbert,” and “ Front-de-Boeuf.” Mab was 
to be “ The Herald.” Little Alice, the “ Queen of 
Love and Beauty.” Mary was to conduct the band, 
which consisted of three pieces : a comb, by Grace 
— if she was willing, a tin trumpet, by Tom, and a 
drum, by Paul. 

The performance was to take place on Saturday 
afternoon, and Mary said she would persuade Grace 
to help them, as she could get up the dresses better 
than anybody else. 

This was Tuesday, so there was time enough to get 
ready. Every sort of thing was begged from mamma, 
who like a wise woman asked no questions, but kept 
a sharp lookout on the doings of her young people. * 

Dear Aunt Eliza’s hoards were ransacked over and 
over again, and Grace was kept very busy over the 
habiliments and trappings of the gay knights. 

The Queen’s toilette was easily disposed of, as a 
gorgeous wreath of paper roses seemed to be the 
only thing needed. 


The First and Last Tournament. 


The Herald’s outfit was more difficult. Mab un- 
dertook the head-gear and helped herself so liberally 
from the tin closet that the cook threatened to tell 
mamma ; but she was pacified by the promise of a 
ticket to the performance. With a dish-cover, col- 
ander and funnel, fastened together in some marvel- 
ous way, and the whole surmounted with a small 
feather duster, her head really presented quite a war- 
like appearance. A scarlet bathing-dress and a sol- 
dier’s sash gave her a look which answered the pur- 
pose very well, for, as Mary said, “ Nobody was 
expected to keep a Herald’s dress on hand.” She 
completed her get-up by nearly losing herself in Hal’s 
rubber boots. 

The twins were made military and happy by paper 
caps ornamented with bands of scarlet and gold, and 
with gilt paper straps put on crosswise over one 
shoulder. 

Hal’s “ suit of armour of steel, richly inlaid with 
gold,” was a triumph of art. Silver paper, covered 
with thin white muslin, was fastened upon pasteboard, 
and Grace adroitly fitted and sewed together a gar- 
*ment very like a soldier’s cuirass. This was trimmed 
with gold paper. A helmet was easily made of 
pasteboard, and a large tin dish-cover served for a 
shield. 


The First and Last Tournament, 


To have his costume complete, she cut out of pa- 
per “ a young oak tree pulled up by the roots,” and 
pasted it upon the shield. The equipments of the 
other three knights were made in the same way, with 
slight variations — the Black Knight looking like a 
thunder cloud. 

After many discussings it was decided that veloci- 
pedes should be used for steeds. It was not difficult 
to get four, and the boys practiced upon them every 
spare moment. 

The band retired to the summer-house every day 
for a rehearsal, and under Mary’s careful drilling 
could play something that sounded really like a 
march. 

Mab was instructed by Hal to begin the exhibition 
by reciting, while marching through the lists, “ Lar- 
gesse, largesse, gallant Knights,” and Dan, the gar- 
dener’s son, was supplied with round pieces of tin to 
shower down upon her. The spectators were all to 
be seated in the lists, as ample room was needed for 
the display of prowess by the knights. 

Hal had many rehearsals with Bois-Guilbert ; but 
the hardest thing he had to do was to “ compel his 
horse to go backward through the lists.” 

After the combat between Ivanhoe and the Tem- 
plar, the Black Knight and Front-de-Bceuf were to 



The First and Last Tournament, 


have a chance to distinguish themselves. This seemed 
to the boys to be a fair way. 

At last Saturday did come. They had quite an 
audience. Papa, mamma, and Aunt Eliza, with Un- 
cle John’s family of six. The cook, housemaid and 
nurse respectfully took back seats, and Dan sat with 
the band. The gardener was behind the scenes with 
the horses. 

“ The- Queen of Love and Beauty” was a sight well 
worth seeing. She was mounted upon a throne of 
piled-up boxes deceitfully covered with a wolf-robe. 
The crown of the victor gave her so much trouble 
Grace hung it upon a nail behind her, meaning to put 
it in her lianas at the right moment. 

At two, precisely, the band struck up the march. 
Then Tom blew his trumpet long and loud, and in 
pranced the Herald with a gait invented for the occa- 
sion. Mab was a little flustered at seeing the audi- 
ence for the first time, and got confused in her open- 
ing address. She began : 

“ Law’s yes, law’s yes, gallant Knights,” but it 
sounded so nearly right she wisely thought she would 
let it go. 

Dan did his part bravely, and dispensed his favors 
with such a willing hand that our poor little Herald 
nearly lost her helmet, as it was, the plume was 


The First and Last Tournament. 


knocked out. But nothing daunted, she raised the 
shout : 

“ Love of Ladies — Death of Champions — Honor 
to the Generous — Glory to the Brave,” and the band 
wildly tooted, drummed and blew, “ The Star Span- 
gled Banner,” and the Herald departed. 

Then came an anxious moment. At last, at a 
signal from Mary, “ came one of those long and high 
flourishes,” from the band, and three knights rode in 
on their gallant steeds, and took their stand at the 
head of the lists. Soon was heard the sound of a dis- 
tant trumpet, and in rode brave Ivanhoe at full 
speed. 

After advancing and saluting the knights, he began 
his perilous backing feat. He got through half the 
distance very well, but, alas for his dignity ! some of 
the coins that were showered from the galleries had 
not been picked up by the Herald, and over went 
horse and rider. 

Mab and the gardener rushed to the rescue, and he 
was soon remounted, but he contented himself with 
ordinary horsemanship after that. The audience was 
generous and applauded well. 

The champion rode straight up to the knights, and 
struck the shield of Bois-Guilbert until it rang again. 
The Templar exclaimed : 


The First a7id Last Tournament. 


“ Look your last upon .the sun ; for this night thou 
shalt sleep in paradise.” 

“ Gramercy for thy courtesy,” replied the Disin- 
herited Knight. 

Then the band gave the signal and the two knights 
rushed at each other. 

This came out all right : neither was unhorsed, and 
the noise was really deafening. 

The champions rested a few moments, and then at 
the sound of the trumpet they made another rush. 
Bois-Guilbert had been carefully instructed in his 
part and was to allow himself to be unhorsed at the 
second attack ; but his boy nature got the best of him, 
and forgetting all his drilling he fought with such 
a will that, being larger than Hal, he soon got the 
advantage, and the Disinherited then was robbed of 
honors as well as lands by being laid low. 

At this unexpected turn of affairs the two knights 
in waiting could restrain themselves no longer and 
made a rush at each other. 

Ivanhoe scrambled to his feet and tried his best to 
separate the two infuriated knights, but in vain, for 
their horses had got hopelessly entangled. Soon the 
three fell to the ground. 

The Queen, thinking this the right moment for 
crowning the victor, climbed to the top of her some- 


The First and Last Tourtiament. 


what unstable throne to reach the crown, when the 
boxes beneath the robe gave way and down fell Her 
Majesty with an awful crash. Papa rushed and 
rescued her from the wreck of former grandeur. 

Then was heard a cry for help from below. The 
loud noise overhead had frightened the horse and he 
had broken his halter and run down the road. 

The boys picked themselves up and. gave chase in 
spite of their bruises. 

Mab, w^ho had entered into the play heart and soul, 
w'as so disappointed at its 'unfortunate ending she sat 
down and cried. The twins, to comfort her, brought 
the poor battered crown and put it on top of her 
helmet. This tableau so amused the sympathetic 
friends that they burst into a shout of laughter, in 
which Mab joined as heartily as the rest; and “ amidst 
the wreck of matter” the indulgent audience scattered. 



T7^e ^1000 l*rize Series. 


SUNSET MOUNTAIN. 


By MRS. A. E. PORTER, 

Author of “ My Hero,-’ “ This One Tiling' I Do,” &c. 
Price $1.50. 



“ Tlie two Five Hundred Pollar Prize Series, published by D, 
Lothrop & Co., have given universal satisfaction, as furnishing an elevated lit- 
erature for the Sunday School and the family. The Tliousaiid Dollar 
Prize Series are of a higher order of merit, broader and more varied in range, 
pure and lofty in moral tone. They meet the want of the day for books which 
instruct and improve, while they fascinate the reader.” 

Rei\ Hemnn Lincoln, D. D., in The Contributor. 




MOTHER’S BOYS AND GIRLS. 


BY PANSY. 

Quarto, 450 Pa^jCS. Fully Illustrated. Price SI. 25. 



“ Pansy (Mrs. G. R. Alden) is the best story-teller we know, and here are fifty of 
her stories, more or less, each with a fine picture. While they are simple cttough 
for any child to read eagerly, they each exert a subtle charm that holds fast the 
grown-up reader also. Some of the very nicest boys and girls we have ever met 
have their homes between the handsome covers of this book, and all the children in 
the land ought to be allowed to make their acquaintance.’* 



By ELIZABETH C. CLEPHANE. 


Designs by Robert Lewis. Engravedby Wm, 
J. Dana. Price, $2.00. 

This poem, which has gained a world-wide noto- 
riety as one of the Moody and Sankey collection, de- 
serves, in our estimation, a much higher place among 
poetical efforts than it occupies at present. Messrs. 
D. Lothrop & Co., seemingly well aware of the fact, 
have bound the poem in a very attractive cover, with 
beautiful and appropriate engravings. — The Church~ 


One of the perfect gems for holiday gifts. The engrav- 
ings are of a very high order of merit, appropriate, spirited 
and spiritual. We have never seen any better illustrations of 
poetical passages, and we hope that these pictures will find their way 
into many Christian homes. — Methodist, N. Y. 


THE NINETY AND NINE. 


The real attraction of this book Is found in its delicate and appropriate illustra- 
tions. The wonderful “Ninety and Nine ” which has been sung around the 
world in almost every home and chapel is made the subject of fifteen illustrations. 
They are equal to the thought of the poem iri design, and are executed by skillful 
hands. The book Is neatly bound . — Religious Telescope, Dayton, O. 


New Illustrated Books. 


THE ROBINSONS. 

By Mary L. Bisseli,, Price, $1.25. 



A bright juvenile, giving a live'y picture of child life. 


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